Where It's Always 1895 (New and Improved with Less Angst!)
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Let'sWriteSherlock 1895 wd chlnge #4: John wants Sherlock's coat. With the help of TentacleMonster!Moran, he captures Sherlock, only to have him rescued by Team Mystrade (who have their own... plans). Sherlock learns the Joy of Tea and Jumpers in this hopefully funny, definitely cracky tale of coat shopping, tea, and revenge. *References to incest and tentacle rape (non realistic)


He is expecting Moriarty. Instead it is his flatmate, wearing an overly large olive green coat from the Old Navy discount rack.

"John?"

John tilts his head down and to the right. "Obviously," he says in a mocking baritone. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Sherlock. I really am. But I want your coat."

"My coat?"

"Oh, I do so hate repeating myself. Yes. Coat. I tried all the shops and do you know what they told me?"

Apparently, it's not a rhetorical question; John sighs and asks again. "I said, do you know what they told me?! I really do hate repeating myself, Sherlock, I really, really do."

"It's… discontinued?" he offers.

"Damn right it is. Belstaff doesn't make one like that anymore. I searched all over. In stores. Online. They make them to order in China, but they always mess up the pocket placement or that really cool vent in the back doesn't … billow… yes, billow, quite right. But I found one! Finally! And do you know how much the bloody thing costs?!"

Sherlock wasn't going to risk not answering this time. He shook his head.

"1,000 pounds Sherlock. That's half a fuckin' ton. So. I want yours." There's a shift in John's posture, his accent, his whole being. "I know it'll be a bit big, but there's a good tailor on the Lower East Side who does great alterations for a very reasonable price. Moshe's: Where it's always $18.95."

Sherlock's just gotten over the fact that his flatmate and best friend is a criminal mastermind. As disconcerting as that is, he has already accepted it. But this, this is even more startling. Half a ton? Lower East Side? $18.95?

"John? You're not even British?"

"Nope. I'm from Lake Ronkonkoma. It's on Long Island." Sherlock gives him a blank stare. "In New York. Off Manhattan? Shaped like a fish? It's kind of in the belly of…oh never mind. Change "fuckin'" to "bloody", remember to call that goddamned medicine Paracetamol instead of Tylenol, the accent's easy if you watch enough 'Doctor Who'."

Sherlock slumps his head down, chin to chest. How did he miss this?

"But your tea…" he manages to push out of his lips, barely more than a whisper.

"Is consistently the wrong temperature!" he ejaculates. "I never did get the hang of letting the water get to a good rolling boil first. But you wouldn't know, now, would you? By the time you get around to drinking it, it's always gone cold anyway."

He should have noticed. He should have noticed.

"Oh, there you are!" John's looking over Sherlock's shoulder toward the pool when he hears it...a soft, rustling noise, growing louder by the second. He spins around and sees churning waves. "Allow me to introduce my colleague, and when I say "colleague" I mean "friend and potential fuck buddy", Moran. He doesn't like 'Doctor Who'. Prefers reruns of 'The Weakest Link' and 'Gordon Ramsey'. At first, I thought he watched Ramsey for the way he yells at everyone, but now that I know him better, I think he just likes to watch him debone fish."

The purplish mass moves closer and suddenly a large tentacle reaches out and lands on Sherlock's shoulder, with almost a caress. "Oh, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he just has a thing for arrogant pricks," John smirks.

Oh. Ohhhhh….

"Hey, do me a solid and grab that coat for me? Cool, thanks." Two tentacles grab the coat and begin removing it from his shoulders "Hey, hey, careful with that! Try not to drip so much."

Sherlock is stunned. He tries to get a better look at the source of the tentacles, but another two wrap around his body, effectively immobilizing him. After handing over the coat, it makes quick work of his jacket and purple shirt. The buttons pop far too easily.

"What is it with you tentacle guys? Don't you ever think of anything else to do with those things besides stick them up someone's ass? Oh well. I'm going to the dry cleaners before the chlorine damages the fabric. I'd hang around for a bit, but...still not gay. Have fun. Laters!"

"Now?"

"Just a bit longer. We want to ensure his gratitude."

"Really, My. I think we have enough footage. He's your brother, after all."

"Indeed."

"I still can't believe you were right about John," Lestrade says. "He sure had me fooled. That man deserves a fuckin' BAFTA. Let's go."

Mycroft, having anticipated this turn of events long ago, had already contacted the interested parties. Lestrade segments the footage into clips (this takes some time, as he's not particularly good at division) and emails a sample.

Sally responds first:

_You're sure there are no dinosaurs in this? Because I've had it with the dinosaurs and if this tentacle thing ends up looking anything at all like some tentacle-dinosaur I want a bloody refund._

No dinosaurs. Just a torturous struggle.

_I don't care if it's torturous or sheer bliss. I just want to see that fine arse naked._

Oh yes, he's very naked. Bidding starts at 20, yeah?

_Count me in._

Molly's comes a little later:

_There's more of this?_

Much more. Plenty of nudity.

_But pain, right? That wanker isn't enjoying himself in it, is he?_

Oh, no. Most definitely not.

_Good. Whatever the bid is, double it._

"You and Greg?" Sherlock's genuinely surprised. He'd been more than a little off his game lately, what with his best friend turning out to be his mortal enemy and the bout with an amorous bona fide tentacle monster. "I thought you were sleeping with… whatever her name is. Surely, it isn't really Anthea?"

"I like... variety," he replies.

Sherlock's about to leave them to their fun when Mycroft speaks. "We have a special evening planned. I could easily afford both the rent boy and the rent, but Greg is interested in you." Greg blushes. "And I… well, we needn't concern ourselves with social mores, surely we're above such things. It would be rather fascinating to be able to… deduce one's needs, don't you think? I much prefer coercion to force, and free will to coercion."

Sherlock shoots him a silent glare which speaks volumes.

"Ah, you're right who am I kidding, coercion _is_ more fun. See what I mean, you know me so well." The smile is affectionate. "I have to hand it to Greg, it never would have occurred to me if he hadn't insisted sandwiches are better than cake. I've become quite the video producer as of late. Perhaps I could take this off the auction block," he says, holding up a small recorder. "And there's that small matter of your timely rescue. Well… almost timely."

This is more than a bit not good. Sherlock weighs his options.

Back at Baker Street, he seeks the solace of his violin. "A-2-2 … 3-1-1 …" he recites, as he plays a heartbreaking rendition of "Lightly Row."

John is gone.

The John he thought he knew never existed.

The cupboard remains well-stocked with jam, but who will get the milk now? He convulses in sobs.

Why?

Because he sabotaged every one of John's dates, showing up at the same restaurant, mixing up their names, sending criminal syndicates after them, wearing the same outfits but always managing to look better?

Because he drugged the sugar? Grin plastered on his face, equal parts determined and amiable, he handed John that coffee mug. Of course the sugar wasn't drugged, and he apologized; he _had_ said never again. Never again would he be wrong about the sugar not being drugged.

When John was under the influence of a powerful fear-inducing drug, and he locked him in the lab, and... played growling noises... over the lab's sound system... wow- he really wasn't on his best behavior during their trip to the Moors.

That time he put John's red pants into the wash along with the whites, turning the laundry (including his doctor's coat) a rather alarming shade of pink? "PINK!" John had cried when he went to put the clothes in the dryer.

Maybe it was when he pretended to be dead for three years. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If he could only think! He'd been up all night listening to Taylor Swift's "Trouble" on repeat. It's weird how certain songs seem like they're about you. He must have fallen asleep, and now…as early morning light filters through London fog (and the curtains), he's awake. He needs tea. It would get his brain back on track, soothe his jumbled nerves.

As he struggles to his feet, he hears the doorbell and the quick, shuffling noise of someone running. He didn't feel like playing ding-dong-ditch this morning, but he's already up anyway... opens the door, and there it is. On the front stoop. A cup of tea. And a quart of milk. He scans the street and catches a glimpse of sandy-blond hair and a dark, beautifully tailored coat fading into the distance. He returns to the kitchen, moves a kidney to make room for the milk, and drinks the tea. It's cold.

Mrs. Hudson nearly bumps into him as he heads back to his sitting room, lost in thought. "Sherlock, I brought you some tea and biscuits. I'd a few extra and… I know John usually makes… _made_ the tea, so I… thought maybe..." She places the tray by the sofa, waits a moment for any attempt at conversation and, finding none, turns to leave.

"What is this?"

"It's a tea cozy," she says, raising the wrapped pot, as if to pour some, then placing it gently down. "It's meant to keep it hot. Let me know if I can help." She knows full well she can't. She's his landlady, not his therapist.

What had John's delivery meant? Was it a parting gift? A reconciliation? Poisoned? Sherlock decides more tea would be most welcome. He wraps his impossibly long and improbably agile fingers around the handle and decides to be his own mother. He's quite surprised to still see wisps of steam.

Leaning his face over the cup, inhaling deeply, he brings it up to meet his cupid's bow. When it makes contact, he parts his lips ever so slightly for just the tiniest taste, then widens them, letting the sensation of hot tea pouring down his throat overwhelm him. He's unable to suppress a deep, resonating "mmmmmmmm." Tipping his head back, lengthening his neck, the last of the fluid finds its way down. Oh, he had had tea before, in the dorms at Uni. In shops, surrounded by strangers, after a late night fueled by cocaine and cigarettes. But it was never like this. Warm, waiting, just for him. So this is why people stopped all activity at 4. This glorious heat, filling his whole body. All because of a deceptively simple bit of knotted yarn.

_I want to wrap my teapot in a tea cozy every time, so it will stay hot for me. I want to wrap myself in this tea cozy, envelop myself in its warmth. It's like a jumper for your tea. Jumpers are… good. I … want…a jumper. Want...John's jumper. I want John's oatmeal-colored jumper. Now. _

_He makes a mask of black silk. His next step... find John's new apartment. Obviously._


End file.
